Waiting for the Sky to Fall
by VitaSeptima
Summary: Leaving is never easy but walking away from a life of secrets is even harder. Ruth was certain that Harry would leave the Service with her, but the road is rocky and littered with wounds. In the pull for a new life, one of them will have to give in. It all belongs to Kudos and the BBC.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N - A one-shot that turned into two chapters. The rating will increase with the second chapter, which will be posted soon. Thank you for read_ ing.

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The letter sat unopened on her countertop for two days. Enormously pleased with her ability to resist temptation and quell her natural curiosity, Ruth poured herself a congratulatory coffee. Impervious to her struggle, the letter remained patiently waiting, leaning against a bowl of fruit, oblivious to the overripe banana and her wounded pride. She stared at it as she sipped her coffee, locked in a battle of wills, determined not to give in. The only remedy for temptation was distraction. She crossed the kitchen to a set of glass doors and peered out. The iron grey sky hung low on the horizon, so close she could almost touch it. Against it, the blackened branches of her garden stood out in stark relief. Or what would be a garden once spring came. She had never had a proper plot of land or the time to tend one. It was still hard to believe that the house belonged to her, after so many years of living in rented flats. She smiled ruefully into her mug, conceding that the house was actually owned by the bank, she laid only claim to the stoop. And the door – the peeling green door.

Turning away from the window, she spotted an unopened box tucked into a corner of the living room. As part of their service, the moving company had packed up the sundry contents of her flat. She tried not to think of strangers sifting through her belongings, organising and sorting her life into boxes. At the time she had been far too ill to care; her only goal at had been to get out of intensive care. She crossed to the box and gingerly tested its weight. The doctors had given her strict instructions not to lift anything over a certain weight - hence the number of boxes that still lay sporadically placed about the house. She peeled back the packing tape, beset with a curious excitement, like a child opening a cracker. What prize was in this box? It turned out to be the contents of her desk, and she absently flipped through receipts and lists, abruptly stopping when she came across a photo. The soft brown eyes of a little boy smiled back at her. Nico. He had his father's eyes. The roar of waves filled her ears, the scent of seaweed and basil mixed with the tang of the sea. She closed her eyes. She did have a garden once. And a home. And a family. But she never spoke of them; they lived in a little hollowed out part of her heart, closed off and carefully guarded. Remnants of another life. How many reincarnations could a soul have in one lifetime? She traced over Nico's face. He would be older now, perhaps looking even more like his father. Overcome by a wave of tenderness, she kissed the tip of her finger and then placed it on his nose, an act she would often do with the real boy. The past was never completely packed away, it would find always a way to spill out. With a tiny sigh, she returned the photograph back to its hiding place and closed up the box, admitting that the distraction had not worked. Her attention wandered back to the letter. Narrowing her eyes, she glared at it. Who sends letters in this day and age? Emails, texts, a phone call, but not letters. She would not admit that it took a certain amount of effort to write up a letter and post it, as opposed to the rather effortless task of electronic messaging.

With a huff of exasperation, she set down her coffee a marched back over to the counter. Picking up the envelope, she studied her name on the front, written in his perfunctory scrawl. She would recognise his handwriting anywhere. Slipping a knife under the seal, she carefully tore it open. It was a single sheet of paper folded around a ticket. There was only one sentence.

 _Please come. H._

She flipped the paper over, looking for more - a greeting, an explanation, an apology. There should have been more considering they had not spoken for a week. Their last phone conversation had ended with a terse goodbye, or more to the point he had said goodbye and she had rung off with more force than was strictly necessary. His one week in London had turned into two, eventually rolling over into a month. With each conversation, he had become a little less forthcoming, a little more distant, traits that set off silent alarms in her head. When she had pressed him to explain his reticence, he had changed the subject. In the past, she had witnessed enough of his dealings with bureaucrats and politicians to know that he was hedging, prevaricating, withholding information. Instinct told her the reason but she refused to listen. Instead, she blamed his years of solitude, the need for self-preservation, the products of a life built on secrets. Even when he had been in the house with her, a part of him had not been fully present. They had sat at the kitchen table, holding hands, gazing out the window, profoundly thankful to be in each other's company, but those blissful moments had held a strange undercurrent of tension, as if they were each inhabiting a legend, merely playing at being a couple, afraid to completely commit to their roles in case they were summoned back to reality. Still, she could not have asked for him to be more caring or solicitous. He had brought her home when she was released from the hospital; having made sure the paperwork for the house proceeded, and stayed with her for almost a number of weeks. In deference to her injury, he had gallantly forsworn the comfort of the bed, opting instead to sleep on the couch. There had been a few nights when they had lied together on the bed together, talking of everything and nothing, eventually falling asleep holding each other's hand. There had been one night in particular when he had rubbed slow circles across her back, telling her a tale from his youth in a voice low and soothing, and his hands had drifted down her waist, eventually descending to her hips. She had turned to him, and his talk had given way to tentative kisses, lingering, deepening, want stirring within them. But before their desires could be realised, they had pulled away. Or perhaps it was she who had pulled away, conscious of her wound. At the remembrance of his kisses, she touched her fingers to her lips, her stomach dropping into a pool of warmth. He was a very good kisser. It was all very lovely but in the end, kisses and hand-holding were no substitute for talk of the future. His clothes hung in the closet upstairs but there was no definitive plan for him to move in, she had merely laboured under the assumption that he would. Assumptions always had a way of unravelling. Reality had crept in. It had been easy to ignore the phone calls from Erin, to avoid the messages from Towers, but the summons from the Director General could not be ignored. There were loose ends to the Gavrik affair, the Russian situation, the charges against Sasha. He would go up to London and look after it all, she didn't have to worry, it would be taken care of in a few days, he assured her, a week at the most.

How had a month slipped by?

She flicked the edge of the ticket with her thumb. It was for a performance of a Rachmaninoff piano concerto. A smile tugged at her lips. They had stood at the sink one evening washing up, the radio playing quietly in the background, when Harry had started to wax on about Led Zeppelin. Unable to resist, she had teased him, saying she was under the impression that the only rock he listened to was Rachmaninoff. That, in turn, had led to a debate on the merits of Rachmaninoff versus Tchaikovsky. They had a habit of falling into these tiny skirmishes. She was firmly in the Tchaikovsky camp, arguing that Rachmaninoff was only following in the footsteps of a greater composer. He had championed Rachmaninoff, promising that if there was ever the opportunity he would take her to a concert and she could hear for herself.

"Oh, Harry," she sighed.

What was she supposed to do with him? Impossible man.

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The taxi pulled away and Ruth found herself in the middle of the pre-concert bustle. The crowd flowed around her as she stood on the pavement trying to get her bearings. After months in the solitude of her little house, the chaos of London was a shock to her system. She took a deep breath, schooling herself that she would adjust to it in a moment; the ability to function amidst jostling activity was in her blood it would all come back. Her tiny suitcase waited at her feet, the wheels proving inadequate in the slush. She had only packed a small bag, unsure of her reception, planning to stay for one night, if that. The sticking point in her plan was that she had not contacted Harry to let him know that she was coming. To be fair, he had made no effort to communicate with her either. Did he think she would come at the snap of a finger, lured by a concert ticket? She would show him. She had boarded the train entirely of her own free will. It was an opportunity to see a world class pianist. Head held high, she walked towards the door and promptly tripped over a crack in the pavement. A hand reached out and steadied her.

"Are you alright?"

She looked up into the face of a man. He smiled at her kindly.

"Yes," she confirmed, struggling to regain her composure. "Thank you."

"Let me hold the door for you," he offered graciously.

Ruth gave him a nod of thanks, the analytical part of her brain quickly assessing his features, calculating his motives. Early forties, hair grey around the temple, intelligent eyes, sports jacket. Businessman perhaps? She concluded that his threat level was low. After he had held the door, he disappeared, leaving Ruth to her own devices. Entering the lobby, she searched for the cloakroom. Finding it, she deposited her belongings with the attendant. With a critical eye, she watched the other patrons check their coats and bags, each object a potential threat. There should be metal detectors, or at the very least, a wand. The venue was the perfect place for a security breach. What was in that black briefcase? She blinked. Why was she acting this way? It wasn't her job anymore. She was a mere civilian. Shaking her head, she walked away telling herself to concentrate on assessing the damage the train ride had wrought and not matters of national security.

Once inside the restroom, she couldn't help but glance under the cubicle doors, noting the shoes beneath them. She immediately chided herself for thinking danger lay behind each stall. Would she ever lose the paranoia? Women flitted about chatting amiably, looking far more chic and cosmopolitan than she could ever hope to be. Ruth ran a hand over her dress. Every piece in her sparse wardrobe had hung heavy with memory, reeking with her association with Five, so she had treated herself to a new outfit. The saleswoman had done her best to convince Ruth to take a red number. She had almost relented but in the end, she had opted for black dress; timeless, discreet, ideal for blending in. She had flirted with a new pair of heels but had eventually, but they too were rejected for a more practical pair of boots. She grimaced at herself in the mirror. You can take the girl out of the city, but you can't take the spook out of the girl. She had made one concession to change. Having gone without a proper trip the salon for almost a year, she had acquiesced when the hairdresser had suggested highlights. Caramel, the stylist had called the colour, as if Ruth were some sort of confection. At any rate, they did manage to conceal the strands of grey that had somehow popped up overnight. Trauma would do that. She put on a fresh coat of lipstick and decided she didn't look that much worse for wear. Fetching, she mouthed to the mirror.

The lobby was significantly more crowded when she returned, the majority of the people having paired off, leaving her to stand alone like a blackened tree in the wasteland. She checked her phone. Twenty minutes until the concert. No message, no text. She scanned the crowd, remaining calm; there was no need to panic. Yet. A voice niggled in the back of her head - it would serve her right if he did not show; she should have told him she was coming. The conviction that he would come lay in a strand of a memory, a conversation on a rooftop and an invitation to dinner. He had said he would go even if she said no. He would come tonight. Tired of standing alone, she moved to the bar and ordered herself a glass of white wine. Searching the lobby for a vantage point from which to watch the crowd, she found a spot near the window.

"There is always one person who is on time and one who is late."

It was the man who had offered her assistance at the door. She subverted her immediate impulse to walk away.

"Are you waiting for someone?" she asked nonchalantly, taking a sip of her wine, hoping the art of small talk had not completely forsaken her.

"I'm here with my mother." The man admitted, rather sheepishly. "My father died a few months ago."

"I'm sorry."

"She's a fan of Rachmaninoff."

"That's very considerate of you to bring her." Ruth mentally noted that you could always tell the make of a man by how he treats his mother.

"Do you like Rachmaninoff?" he asked changing the subject. "Of course you do, you're here aren't you?"

She smiled at his nervous banter. The wine dulled her paranoia and she relaxed, entertaining the notion that maybe he was not some undercover operative working on an entrapment scheme but an ordinary man making overtures towards her.

A bell chimed softly.

"Is it time to go in already?" she asked

"Looks that way. We should get to our seats. Perhaps I'll see you at the interval."

She gave him a friendly nod and he walked away. She ran an absent finger through her hair. Perhaps the highlights were a good idea after all. The bells continued to chime and she hastily gulped down the rest of her wine as she took one last look about the lobby. A head of thinning blond hair wove its way through the crowd. Her heart stopped and she stood rooted to the spot. As the man neared, it became apparent that he was not Harry. A strange relief washed over it, leaving her confused. A clipped bird given the chance to spread her wings, not ready to go back in the cage. She had enjoyed the few moment of attention from a complete stranger, perhaps she wasn't quite ready to give that up.

Ruth put down her glass and hurried into the concert hall. Entering patrons jostled with those already in their seats, and Ruth counted off the numbers in the row until she found hers. She sat down, immersing herself in the contents of the program, trying her best to ignore the empty seat beside her. He would have called her stubborn, and rightly so. No matter, she would enjoy the performance.

The lights lowered and the first violin drew his bow across the strings, a single forlorn note wafting over the orchestra, the rest of the instruments following suit as they tuned. The conductor walked on stage and the audience applauded as he bowed. As the overture began, Ruth settled back into her seat, determined to lose herself in the music. It was a short, flamboyant piece designed to warm up the audience for the concerto, and Ruth found herself smiling in spite of herself. After the overture, there was a small break as the piano was wheeled into position, followed by the obligatory coughing and shuffling from the audience, the auditorium doors opening and closing quickly to admit latecomers. Ruth paid no attention to the patrons shuffling about in her row until a man moved towards the seat beside her. For a moment, she thought it was the man from the lobby having found out her location and come to join her. The air shifted. The hair on her arms rose as her skin grew taut; her heart fluttered high in her chest. She knew exactly who it was. How could he still affect her this way even after all this time? He sat down in the seat and leaned in close to her ear.

"Sorry, I'm late."

Harry's low whisper slipped into her ear and under her anger. A shiver ran up her spine. She glanced at him, not wanting to telegraph how happy she was to see him. Her brow furrowed. It was hard to discern in the darkness but it looked like he had grown a beard. She could barely see his eyes, but she knew that he was smiling. He leaned over and placed a quick kiss on her lips, the scratch of his whiskers brushing against her cheek. Her breath caught in her throat, surprised by the forwardness of his actions, overwhelmed by the familiar scent of scotch and confidence. Before she could say anything, the soloist walked onstage and they were obligated to applaud his entrance. The audience settled down but Ruth's mind carried on, spinning with the discovery of these new developments. He had a beard. He was late because he had been out drinking. The hall waited in quiet anticipation, and Ruth was certain that everyone could hear her thoughts.

Out of the silence, the first low chords of the concerto played, deep and full, thrumming like a pulse. She concentrated on the music and not the man beside her. Notes poured over her, a soft caress that became more insistent, entering her, tugging at emotions that lay deep within her being. Her mouth parted and she leant forward pulled by the music. Halfway through the swelling theme, her heart lifted in her chest and she was ready to admit the power of Rachmaninoff. From the corner of her eye, she could see Harry watching her but she didn't care. He reached out and took her hand. He knew. He had known the music would have this effect on her. Insufferable man. But her anger refused to materialise, the music unwilling to give it room. He placed her hand on his thigh, and she let it rest there. His leg was firm and warm under her palm, the muscle of his thigh flexing as he shifted in his seat. The connection was electric, and for a few moments, she allowed herself to be immersed in the music along with him. All too soon, the concerto ended. The last note faded and she joined with the audience in enthusiastic applause.

The lights rose and she turned to Harry with a smile on her face, still buoyed by the effects of the concerto. Her smile faltered when her suspicions of a beard were confirmed. It was neatly trimmed with a touch of grey on either side. She couldn't decide if he looked like a professor or like a scoundrel. In fact, she couldn't fathom why he would have grown it in the first place.

"This is new." She motioned to her own chin.

"Ah, yes," said Harry, stroking his jaw. "A bit of a departure. Just trying it on."

She smiled tightly, her mind instantly clicking into spook mode. Facial hair was a diversion, a means to conceal, a method of deception. Unaware of her analysis, he leaned in with a soft smile on his face.

"I like your hair."

She did not return the compliment. The change in his appearance rankled her. It wasn't as though he needed her permission to grow a beard but he should have asked her opinion all the same.

"Would you like a drink?"

He rose and held out his hand, an olive branch. Wordlessly, she placed her hand in his and he helped her up from her seat.

In the lobby, she waited as went Harry off to order their drinks. She calmly surveying the crowd, content that she was not alone.

"Hello again."

It was the man from earlier in the evening.

"Did you enjoy the concerto?" he asked.

"Very much," she offered enthusiastically, feeling far more convivial than she had before the show.

"It's such a passionate piece. I'm always moved by it."

"Yes, I was too," she agreed.

The man frowned, and Ruth turned to find that Harry had taken up the place beside her. He offered her a glass of wine.

"Thank you," she murmured unsure if she should look at Harry or the man. Harry, now having one hand free placed it possessively on the small of her back. A tight smile crossed his face. The man cleared his throat.

"Hope you enjoy the rest of the performance." The man nodded curtly and walked away.

"Who was that?" Harry asked gruffly.

"Oh, just someone I was talking to before the concert."

"Do you always start up conversations with strange men?"

"Only if the one I am waiting for is late." She looked out over the crowd, sipping her wine, letting her comment land with its full effect.

He did not look at her, but slid his hand slowly down her back, letting it come to rest on the fuller part of her curves. He took a sip of his wine and rolled it around in his mouth. Discreetly, Ruth reached around and repositioned his hand further up her back. Harry remained looking out into the crowd, a mischievous smile tilting the corners of his mouth.

"Harry! Fancy running into you here."

The voice landed on Ruth like a bucket of cold water. It was Towers. Of all the places to run into him. At one time, the Home Secretary had been a part of her daily routine, but the sight of him in such an incongruous setting left her disoriented.

"Ruth," Towers exclaimed, recognising his former Security Adviser. "How are you? You're looking well."

Ruth mustered a faint smile, afraid that if she spoke she would lend credence to the reality of the situation.

"I hope you know that should you ever decide to return, there is always a position waiting for you," Towers carried on. "All lost sheep are welcomed back into the fold. Right, Harry?"

A reflexive smile crossed her face, words automatically falling from her lips. "That's very gracious, Home Secretary, but I'm happy where I am."

"It's William." Towers leaned in closer. "Surely, after everything we've been through we can be on a first name basis."

They had been through nothing compared to what she and Harry had experienced. The wine in her stomach churned making her slightly queasy. She had not anticipated that she would be dropped back into her old life so quickly. There should some sort of hyperbaric chamber for these situations, to ease the effects of decompression and alleviate the pain of the air being completely sucked from one's lungs.

"They closed down that charming little restaurant that we went to," Towers intoned confidentially. "Did you know that?"

Harry's hand stirred on her lower back, fingers pressing into her spine, pulling her ever so slightly toward him. His eyes remained trained on Towers, his expression giving no indication that his hand was moulded to her curves. Ruth's concentration spiralled to the spot where his hand lay, her ability to focus slipping away.

"Any developments on that situation we spoke of earlier, Harry?" Towers asked.

Harry's back stiffened at the question at Towers' lack of discretion. If Ruth had stayed at the Home Office, she most certainly would have drummed these lapses in the Home Secretary's character. As it was, her shoulders tensed along with Harry. Tower's question only added fuel to her suspicions that Harry was withholding information.

"This might not be the most appropriate venue to discuss that matter," Harry cautioned.

Ruth suppressed a smile. She had not seen that side of Harry in a while; the faint sneer of contempt on his lips, the barely concealed disdain that he held for politicians. His hand remained on her back, the heat of his touch telegraphing his carefully controlled power. It emanated from him, the fact that he knew more than Towers, knew more than anyone in the room. Blood rushed through her veins, and her spine straightened with confidence, her hip moving imperceptibly closer to his. He had chosen her and by association, she was part of that power. Together, they were impenetrable; the secrets between them would fell a government. A man like Towers would never understand their world, the knowledge that bound them, what they had sacrificed. In the course of their careers, how many Home Secretaries had they gone through, how many more had Harry previously seen? She was revisited by the guilt she had felt when she had left Harry and gone work for Towers. Her departure then had been fuelled by pride and anger. Why was he always bringing these things out in her? But she had come back to him, drawn by an inextricable thread woven from secrets. She would always be loyal to Harry.

"We were hoping to have an evening away from business," Harry continued, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

"Of course, of course. Don't want to be the third wheel. We'll talk on Monday, shall we?"

Ruth followed Towers with her eyes as he walked away. Harry did not remove his hand from her back.

"What will you be talking about on Monday, Harry?" She did not trust herself to look at him directly.

"We should think of heading back to our seats."

She subtly stepped away from his grip.

"Harry?"

He took her hand. "You look tired."

For the first time that night, she looked into the deep brown of his eyes. There was no subterfuge, only concern and kindness. Why did he have to be so many people? Suddenly, she was very tired, the weight of the evening too much to carry.

"It's been a long day," she conceded.

"We don't have to stay for the second half if you don't want to."

She wanted to go home to her little house where everything was as contained, no surprises lurking beneath the surface. She didn't want to sit in the dark beside him, her mind buzzing once again trying to puzzle out what was happening.

"Yes, I think I would like to go."

Harry pursed his lips. He had heard the flatness in her voice.

They collected up her bag and found a taxi with surprising ease, the benefit of leaving the concert before the crowd. Harry gave the driver instructions to a hotel.

"Hotel?" she echoed

"The agent thought if I did a few upgrades on the house I could get a better price. The Service is putting me up at a hotel."

"You're selling your house?"

"I got an appraisal."

She stared at the seat in front of her, unseeing, trying to process one more revelation. She should be happy that he had taken the initiative to sell his house; it meant that he was moving in with her. Or did it? She wasn't sure what to believe. All that she had were pieces but no picture.

"You didn't mention that you were staying at a hotel."

"Didn't I? I was sure I did."

Damn elusive spook. She clutched her fingers around her purse. The constant drip of information reminded her of any number of operations she had worked on, except this was not an operation it was her life. They had to hash things out, sit down and have a long conversation about their future, a plan as to how their lives would intersect. She had rehearsed as much on the train ride to London, but then she had envisioned the end of the evening in the comfort of Harry's living room. She had to realign her expectations. She stared out the window, lights passing by in an unseeing haze. The bottom dropped out of her stomach, the implications of the situation hitting her. A hotel. A night in a hotel brought along a whole other set of expectations.


	2. Chapter 2

A canopy of lights jutted out over the pavement and the taxi pulled up underneath its glow. Ruth's stomach fluttered as Harry paid the driver. It wasn't nerves; it was two glasses of wine on an empty stomach. Harry collected her bag while she stood on the street taking in the exterior of the building. The hotel was an elegant multi-storied affair, rising up into the night sky. Nudged by Harry, she moved through the revolving door, her sense of reality becoming tangled motor, left behind to watch as she walked on without it. Saxophone music wafted throughout the lobby, porters and guests walking about, oblivious to her presence; she and Harry could be any ordinary couple. She should be happy; impressed that Harry had planned such an evening, a piano concerto, a stay at a hotel. On the surface, it was all very romantic, but underneath it was yet one more decision that had been made without her input.

As they walked into the lift, she surreptitiously studied Harry. Did he feel the strangeness of the evening as she did? Disjointed reunion, trains at the station always arriving at different times. He moved his hand, his fingers glancing across hers.

"I wasn't sure if you were going to come or not."

"I didn't want to miss the concert," she responded, not completely letting him off the hook.

"Are you going to admit I was right about to Rachmaninoff?"

"I'm not ready to make that commitment."

A shadow fell across Harry's face. Her words had been said in a teasing fashion, but he had interpreted a different meaning. She focused on the lift panel, buttons slowly lighting up as they ascended, the idea of the hotel room looming disproportionally large in her mind.

The suite was tastefully decorated, though there was an air of impermanence to the room, the accumulated indifference of strangers. There was no suitcase visible but there were signs of Harry's occupancy - newspapers on a table, books by the bedside. A cohort of suits and shirts hung in the entryway, still in their dry cleaning bags. Harry rolled her bag in and lifted it onto the luggage rack, its tiny size swallowed up by the enormity of the suite.

"Not very heavy," he observed.

"I didn't know how long I was staying."

He gave no indication that he was perturbed by the ambivalence of her plans. But then, he was very good at hiding his feelings. Ruth shuffled her feet awkwardly, unsure of her place in this world that Harry had created.

"How long have you been living here?"

"A few weeks." He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair.

She nodded. A few weeks, and during that entire time he had made no mention of a hotel.

"Do the public know you're spending their money this way?"

"I think we have some sort of arrangement with the hotel."

She walked over to the window and looked out. They were on one of the higher floors, caught halfway between the glittering lights below and the endless darkness that stretched out overhead. Unreal city.

"Nice view."

"I think so."

His eyes rested on her, telling her that he was not talking about the view from the window. She would not be lulled in by his flattery. His shirt rustled and silk moved against cotton as he pulled at the knot in his tie and slipped it through his collar. Free of his jacket, he rolled his sleeves to his forearms.

"Take off your coat," he suggested.

She pulled her coat tighter.

Leaning back against the desk, he studied her from across the room, looking every bit at home in a space that asked nothing in return. She countered his appraisal, her eyes drawn to his beard, unable to decipher its meaning; it was a sign of rebellion, against the establishment or against her, she couldn't be certain. There was an edge of danger to it, giving him permission to slip into an alternate persona. This man was a stranger to her; she did not know how to speak to him. In the quiet of the room, their eyes met and she took a step back, finding that the wall was closer than she had anticipated. The walls of the room had moved in making the bed between them appear overwhelmingly large. Piled high with pillows and a thick duvet, it should have been an inviting retreat, but to her, it was an intimidating presence. It was his bed; he had slept in it without her, head on the pillow, his body between the sheets. Mouth dry, pulse a little erratic, she licked her lips. There was no decompression chamber large enough for this. Her eyes moved to the door and then back to Harry. He looked at her curiously.

"Can I get you a drink?"

Retreat was her only thought. She needed to collect herself. They needed to have a long conversation about communication and expectations, set some ground rules before things went any further. There was only one place she could go.

"I should freshen up."

She laid her purse on the table, the metal clasp clanking loudly on the glass top. Painfully conscious of his eyes on her, she eased off her coat and laid it on the couch. Having taken off the coat she felt exposed. She smoothed down her dress.

"Is that a new dress?" he asked.

"Hmm," she answered, focusing on her boots. She leaned against the coach for support. It was a decent size couch, well padded, suitable for one to sleep on if the need arose. Her fingers fumbled with the zip of her boot, the teeth catching on the lining. She tugged at it.

"Do you need a hand?" he asked.

"I've got it," she responded through gritted teeth.

"Is it snagged?"

"It's fine-"

"I could hold it-"

"No!" With one last tug, the zipper released and the boot came off, falling to the floor with a loud thump. "Thank you," she added softly, hoping to take the edge off of her curt rejection of his help. She eased off the other boot with far less effort and gave a tiny sigh of relief.

The bathroom was on the other side of Harry, and she took a deep breath to fortify herself for the journey. His eyes followed her with the steadiness of a hawk. As she walked past him, he reached out and caught her wrist, drawing her to his side. His lips came down, and in a moment of panic, she moved her head. His beard scratched her skin, and she winced. Her finger rose to the spot on her cheek, her skin tingling with the abrasion.

"It's a bit scratchy," she smiled, her voice coming off not quite as sunny as she had hoped.

His eyes clouded over. Slipping out of his grasp, she continued on to the bathroom.

Once inside, she leant against the marble vanity, her arms rigid, breath shallow in her chest. Her reflection gazed back at her from the mirror. She did look tired. Perhaps she had overtaxed herself; the trip, seeing Harry, the constant drip of information. A night in a hotel.

A small black bag sat on the counter, all of Harry's toiletries neatly contained within the leather. If she were staying here, her things would be scattered in every corner. If it had been up to her, she would have chosen a smaller hotel, out of the city, one less opulent, more intimate. But that decision too had been taken from her. Turning around, she investigated the rest of the bathroom. A spartan shower stall stood in one corner juxtaposed by a romanesque bath in the other. As she studied the tub, a sea of insurrection swelled within her. She could at least make one decision. She crossed over to the tub and turned on the taps. Water gushed out with a satisfyingly deafening surge. She knew that she was doing it out of spite, the recalcitrant child who throws a rock simply because it's the only thing they can do. An assortment of bottles lined the side of the tub, and she selected one, twisting off the top, and pouring out a few drops. Drip, drip, drip. She was tired of drips. Tipping her wrist, she drained the entire contents into the water, a mountain of bubbles instantly appearing. She would freshen up for as long as she pleased. She pushed a silver button, delighted as streams of water swirled beneath the surface. Bubbles crept up over the edge of the tub and she turned off the water. As she removed her dress, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. In her bathroom at home, she had managed to avoid looking at her scar, but here the mirror hung large. Steam rose, ghosting over her reflection but it did not conceal everything. Closing her eyes, she turned her back to the mirror and removed the rest of her clothes. She didn't have to look at the scar if she didn't want to. She dipped a toe into the frothy water, and quickly pulled it back out. Delicate bubbles belied the scalding water beneath them. Nothing was what it seemed. She watched the bubbles glittering under the lights. Was she being any more honest than Harry? She had thought that by buying the house she had jumped into the deep end, struck out on her own, forsaking the security that the service offered. In the end, she was only swimming in a pool; all she had done was travel to the other side, clinging to the safety of a different edge. One of them would have to let go. She stepped into the water, easing herself into the bubbles. Heat washed over her body, seeping into muscles that she had not realised were tense. She let out a long sigh and relaxed back against the tub.

Lost in thought, she did not hear the gentle tap on the door or the soft call of her name. She opened her eyes to find Harry standing by the side of the tub. She jumped in surprise, bubbles spilling over the edge in the wake of her movement.

"You didn't answer," he explained. "I was worried."

The legacy of living alone, forgetting to lock the door.

"The tub looked so inviting." She did not look at him, lying, caught out in her peak of rebellion.

His eyes ran over her, following the length of the tub, and she hastily rearranged the bubbles.

"I'll let you be alone then."

"I've been alone for a month, Harry." She did not mean for it to sound snide, but it did.

He leaned back against the vanity, his arms crossed over his stomach.

"Is that bathtub comfortable?"

"It got these little jets." She pushed the button to demonstrate her point.

"I haven't paid much attention to it. More of a shower man."

"Nothing beats a good soak."

She closed her eyes, sinking a little lower, giving every indication that she planned to remain in the tub for a good amount of time. She assumed that he would leave, but instead there was a rustling by the sink as water ran into the basin, followed by the squeak of a towel as it ran across the glass. She opened one eye. Harry stood at the mirror, his fingers lathering foam across his face.

"What are you doing?"

"I was under the impression you didn't like this." He lifted his chin and pulled a razor blade along the underside of his jaw.

"You don't need to shave it off."

"It's pretty minor as far as sacrifices go." He tapped the razor on the sink.

"I didn't ask you to do it."

"Sometimes, it's about what's not asked."

She sank into the tub, a secret smile on her face, relishing the fact that she still had some sway over him. Fascinated, she watched as the razor scratched over his skin, whiskers falling away. Satisfied with his handiwork, he wiped his face with a towel and tossed it onto the counter. He came over to the tub and sat down on the edge. As he loomed over her, his eyes drifted down to the water line, the bubbles barely concealing her breasts. She carefully repositioned herself. He leaned his face down to her.

"How does this feel?"

She raised a bubble covered hand and slid her fingers along his cheek. His skin was surprisingly smooth, and she let her fingers linger for a moment.

"It's much better."

He remained sitting on the edge of the tub, his hand skimming over the bubbles. She held her breath certain that he was going to move the ones away that covered her. He caught a cluster of bubbles in his hand and studied them.

"Fragile things," he murmured. His fingers folded over the bubbles, crushing them, a few resilient ones seeping out through the cracks in his fist. He returned to trailing his hand through the bubbles. "They want me to come back to Five."

It hit her, the reality of what she had been trying to ignore, and she sucked in her breath, the skin around her scar growing taut. She closed her eyes.

"I suspected as much."

"What do you think?" he asked.

"Does it matter what I think?" She reached for a washcloth, feigning insouciance, hiding her irritation.

"Of course it matters."

"I don't think this is the best place to talk about it," she said, taking a leaf from his playbook of deflection, attempting to postpone the conversation. "I'm at a bit of a disadvantage seeing as I'm naked and you're not."

Harry stood up, and Ruth busied herself with the washcloth, twisting it into a knot, infusing the fabric with her anger. They were supposed to be building a life together away from the Service and its secrets. Fabric rustled beside her. She looked up from under hooded lids. Harry's fingers moved over the buttons of his shirt. She froze.

"What are you doing?"

"Leveling the playing field." He dropped his shirt onto the floor.

He was joking, surely.

"You can't just…" Words to describe the act failed her. "Harry," she warned.

His zipper rasped as he slid it down. She looked away; eyes shut tight, mouth opened with incredulity. His belt buckle clanked as his trousers hit the floor.

"Scoot over," he said.

"I will not," she answered indignantly.

"There's room for two."

"That's not the point." Her eyes remained averted.

"You missed a spot on your back."

"No, I didn't."

"How do you know, you can't see it. Shift forward a bit."

He was bluffing, trying to get a reaction out of her, payback for ostensibly not caring if he returned to work. She was convinced he would not get into the tub; their relationship was nowhere near that stage. But then again, their relationship had never followed a linear trajectory. It was more of a tango, one step ahead two steps back.

"I can get in the front way if you'd rather."

He took a step forward, and a naked calf moved into her peripheral vision. The man had no shame. Closing her eyes, she hastily moved forward, blocking his route into the tub, unwittingly leaving the space behind her open. He took advantage of it and his foot made a tiny splash as it hit the water. She gasped at his audacity. Had the man no shame? A small thrill shot through her as he eased himself in, the hair on his legs scratching her smooth skin as they slipped through the water, coming to rest on either side of her. She sat in stunned silence; her only consolation was that she had taken most of the bubbles with her. Knees up, she tried to maintain a proper distance between them.

"Hand me the washcloth," he said.

She looked up at the ceiling for guidance. How had this happened? Without turning to look at him, she passed the cloth back over her shoulder. He dipped in the water and the gently worked it over her shoulders.

"It's not often that we see people's backs," he mused. "We only see fronts."

He lifted her hair away from the back of her neck, droplets of water falling from his hand and sliding down her spine. "You have a beautiful back." His fingers followed the path of the droplets, following the bumps of her vertebrae, dipping below the water. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against her shoulder. She shivered.

"Harry..."

"Hmmm."

"We haven't seen each other for a month. We haven't spoken...we can't just pick up where we left off."

"You're right," he said, sliding back in the tub. "Come here," he murmured, undermining his earlier agreement.

She let out a sigh of exasperation. What was she to do with him? She had never been able to say no to him; to a concert ticket, a hotel room, stealing a computer from the American embassy. Her head wobbled with indecision. Why stop now? Capitulating to his wishes, she closed her eyes and leaned back, steeling herself for the initial contact. Her shoulder blades pressed against the flesh of his chest, a thousand electrical impulses singing through her skin. He was so very solid and for a moment she was grounded by the reality that was him. She struggled with the urge to completely sink into him, afraid that if she did it would be conceding defeat. His inner thighs touched her hips, and she shifted, trying to keep a semblance of distance. It was far too intimate a position for two people who had never been...intimate. His fingers drew a line along her arm making patterns with the residue from the soap bubbles.

"Do you remember what you said to me that day?"

She knew to what day he referred; the day that their lives had turned on a dime. For months, they had managed to skirt around the details, Elena's death, Sasha's actions, the shard of glass. They had simply ignored the fallout. No past, no future. Her scar was the only reminder but she had kept that well hidden. She trailed her hand through the water.

"I asked you to leave the Service with me."

"It would seem that leaving the Service is far more complicated than simply walking away."

"I did it."

"You made a lateral move to the Home Office, and then you left. I'm the head of Counterterrorism."

"Meaning that I was disposable."

"That's not what I meant."

"And it wasn't a lateral move, by the way," she corrected him. "I had a PA."

"Point taken."

Through her back, she could feel the vibrations of his voice rumbling deep in his chest. It was the special timbre that he used only with her and she found it vaguely soothing. In spite of herself, she reclined further back into him. He spoke against her hair.

"Apparently the value of my intellectual capital has only now been realised especially in light of the current political climate. They've made me a very attractive offer."

It was as she feared; the Service was a far more appealing mistress, offering far more excitement than a quiet life in the county. How could she ever hope to compete? But the Service was not here with him now, sitting between in legs, naked under a blanket of fragrant bubbles. Moving with apparent innocence, she shifted back ever so slightly, testing to see if she had any effect on him. His chest rose with a sharp intake of breath. She smiled.

"I left once before, remember?" She ran her toe along his calf muscle. "It is possible to have a very …. satisfying life outside the service."

It was a game she had little practice at – the art of seduction. She was more at home in the intellectual arena. She did not know how far she would go. His hand slipped around her rib cage, pausing under the fullness of her breast, and he pulled her back against him. His mouth hovered near her ear.

"But you missed it, didn't you?"

His teeth caught her earlobe, and a bolt of lust ripped through her body, flesh rebelling against her mind. The water lapped hypnotically around them, and she relaxed into his embrace. Against her ribs, his hand cupped her breast, his thumb drawing slow circles across her nipple. His lips moved against her ear.

"You missed knowing what's really happening…"

She couldn't help but arch into his hand, her breath growing shallow, her eyes fluttering closed. It was very unfair. She had started the game but he was a far more experienced player. His free hand ventured beneath the water, sliding along her side, pausing at the curve of her waist. His breath fanned her cheek.

"The excitement, the intrigue..."

He stirred against her, half erect, pressing into her back. She tried to inch away, but his hand dropped to her thigh, holding her in place. Her heart beat in her throat, torn between the desire to turn around and give into to him, and the reflex to pull away and keep what little of herself she had left. His lips moved to a tender spot beneath her ear, and she tilted her head back giving him access. He tasted her throat, sucking at the sensitive skin. His hand massaged her thigh as his lips moved over her neck.

"The excitement of living on the edge..."

His fingers moved to her inner thigh, drawing delicate circles, teasing, barely touching.

"Harry," she whispered.

"Admit it." His hand slid between her legs. "You want that."

Her hand flew down to his, stopping his progress. His chest moved with barely contained breaths, his heart beat against her back. She closed her eyes, summoning her willpower, needing her voice to be heard.

"Is this some sort of seduction to lure me back to the Service?"

He tensed behind her. "No."

"Or are you trying to make me more amenable to your return to it."

"No, that's not what I'm doing."

She sat up moving slightly away, trying to steady her breath, her heart thudding against her rib cage.

"Because I can't go back."

His hand dropped away from her breast, falling into the water with a splash. The water stirred at his movement, bubbles slowly dissolving. They sat in silence until he spoke.

"I've been a spy for thirty years, Ruth. I don't know any other life."

She could not see his face; it was the only way he could reveal himself. His admission was a prelude to a question, and she was afraid of the answer. Closing her eyes she mustered the courage to ask it.

"What do you want to do?"

"I'm selfish. I want both."

"I'm not asking you to choose."

He made no immediate reply, and she recalled his earlier words. Sometimes it's about what is not asked. He stirred in the water.

"Do you remember what you said to me when you were describing your house?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't remember that part."

"You said we were never meant to have that kind of life."

Sound roared in her ears, darkness with the force of a locomotive rushed in on her, swallowing her up in its black embrace. Patches of sky flashed before her eyes, and the air left her lungs as she was flung on her back, the ground beneath her hard and damp. Hold on to something, anything. His voice. As long as he was there the sky would not fall. Fingers of cold crept through her, seeping into her veins, and her blood froze. She couldn't breathe. Her hand moved to her stomach, protecting, hiding. She took it away and looked at it. There was nothing there. Air hit her lungs, and a small gasp, not quite a sob, left her throat. She shivered. Blinking, she looked around the room.

"Are you alright?" he asked, tentatively touching her shoulder.

She nodded, trying to shake off the experience that had just visited her. "The water's getting cold."

"You're right," he agreed with a small sigh. "It is."

He pulled his legs back and out from beside her and grabbed onto the side of the tub using the edge as leverage to pull himself up. Water splashed as he left, his wet foot hitting the floor with a thud. She closed her eyes, still unable to look at him, unable to look at herself. She patted around beneath the remaining bubbles, searching for the stopper. She pulled the plug, and the water echoed throughout the room as it swirled down the drain. Harry stood by the side of the bath, a towel wrapped around his waist, holding another in his hand for her. She reached up for it without meeting his eyes. He turned away, but she kept her back to him well aware of the all-seeing eye of the mirror. Bubbles clung to her skin, refusing to leave, fragile yet stubborn. Stepping out of the tub, she kept her eyes lowered, knowing that he remained in the room silently watching her. The towel was large enough to cover her down to her knees, but she clutched the knot to her breast, knuckles pressed against her chest, lest anything should be revealed. She looked at his feet, his calves visible beneath the hem of the towel, sturdy and strong. Her eyes rose to where the towel sat at his waist, evidence of a good life, a man who enjoyed his scotch, a fine meal and an evening in a comfortable chair. The hair on his chest was golden against skin made ruddy from the heat of the bath. Near his left shoulder, a raised white scar stood out in relief against the flushed skin. A memento from his brush with death. Her memento, hidden, denied. She took a step toward him, close but not touching, searching her mind for an explanation.

"I think I said those words because I wanted to let you go. I thought I was dying."

"You did die. You died in my arms," he whispered. "And I died with you."

A tiny whimper escaped her lips and her hand rose of its own volition. She pressed her fingers against his chest, tentatively touching the skin, testing to see if he was real. Her finger hovered over his scar but she couldn't bring herself to touch it, the act somehow too intimate even though they had just sat naked in the tub. Her hand dropped away and she frowned, her mind tumbling over itself, trying to make sense of the strange limbo that they found themselves in - half in the service half out, in a relationship but not fully, each living a half-life. She looked up into his face.

"What are we, Harry?" she whispered

"I don't know. And that's what scares me."

Droplets of water evaporated from her skin, the cold seeping into her pores. What were they without the Service? What were they to each other? He didn't know the answer. He was Harry Pearce, he always knew the answer. And even if he didn't, he would never admit that he was scared. He had lived with a gun to his head, ticking bombs, imminent disaster, but the prospect of a life with her scared him. He brushed his hand across his face, his brow drawn with the same weariness he had shown her that day on the fens.

"I'm not sure if I deserve you."

"I could say the same." She smiled slightly, hoping to find some lightness. Her hand tightened on the towel in a vain attempt to hold onto what was slipping away.

"But you," he swallowed. "You stepped in between me and Sasha; you took the blow that was meant for me."

"I didn't mean to. I didn't know-"

He pulled her in close and buried his face in her hair, his voice raspy in her ear.

"I can't live without you but I don't know how to live with you."

He pulled away, leaving her to sway without his support, taking the warmth of his arms with him. He walked through the door, a wave of cold air rushing in from the adjoining room. She stood completely still, unable to move. Had he made his choice? Was that the end?

Suppressing a shiver, she padded into the next room, her bare feet sinking into the carpet. He sat on the bed, head bowed, arms resting on his knees. She walked over to him. Words escaped her, thoughts completely inadequate; the only thing she knew was that she could not leave him. She stood in front of him hoping that somehow the universe would tell her what to do. Pulled by instinct, she bent over and took his hand, bringing it up to rest her stomach just below her ribs. He looked up at her, confused. His eyes fell down to the spot where his hand was placed, and his brow creased when he realised what lay beneath it. He moved to take his hand away, but she held it firmly in place.

"Your hand was here." She inhaled a shaky breath, searching her memory, pushing away the cold that invaded her. "I remember looking up into your face. The sky was behind you..." She trembled at the enormity of the recollection, fighting to articulate it. "I remember your fingers in my hair. I remember wanting you to kiss me." A lump grew in her throat. " I remember the unfairness of it all." A great knot unspooled from within her, and a tear rolled down her cheek. "And I remember saying I couldn't picture myself living there without you."

His shoulders rose and fell with a ragged breath, his lips firmly pressed together in an effort to contain himself.

"I would do it again, Harry."

She stood before him, shaking, the task of facing that horrible moment draining her. She held his hand tight against her hoping to impart the cost of her admission. His hand stirred and she thought he was going to taking it away but instead he slipped it beneath the folds of her towel. His fingers graced over the tiny ridge on her skin, his palm pressing over the scar. Strength flowing from him into her. He moved his hand along her hip, easing the towel away, his other hand lifting the opposite side. He looked at the scar, and she held her breath, afraid that it was hideous, that underneath it all he would see who she really was. A look of tenderness washed across his face. He bent towards her and softly pressed his lips against the wound, a glancing kiss, grazing across the skin, testing the sensitivity of the spot. Seeing that she did not baulk, he pressed against her with a deeper passion, arms closing in around her, pulling her tighter against him. A gust of breath rushed from her, and her knees trembled as if her muscles had been relieved of a great weight.

She cradled his head against her stomach, the knot in her towel loosening, the cotton half slipping down onto her body. His eyes sought her permission and she nodded. He freed her from the fabric. Unable to meet his eyes and incredibly self-aware, she stood naked before him. In all of her years, she had never fully exposed herself to anyone, even in her younger days she had not had the confidence in her body to do so. But she would do it for him. She looked at him, and his eyes met hers with a look that spoke of dark corridors and secrets places. Years fell away, and he returned to her, the man that she had first fallen in love with.

He lay back on the bed, tugging on her arm, pulling her with him. Crawling onto the bed, she straddled his waist, rising above him, taking a moment to reclaim her power. Leaning over his chest, she exhaled a soft breath against his skin, eliciting a shiver from him. Reverently, she pressed her lips against his scar, an act of mutual absolution. Had any other woman kissed that spot? She blocked the thought from her mind. He was hers. His chest shook with a heavy sigh of release, an understanding of the kiss, an acknowledgement of the wounds they both hid behind, the secrets that they kept. She rested on her elbows, hips settling into him, pleased at the look of pleasure on his face. Firm hands traced her shape, sliding up her spine to her neck, the back of her head, pulling her down to his lips. It was a kiss caught between two worlds. They shifted onto their sides, the kiss deepening as they crossed over. Her hands worked over him, descending to the towel, tugging at the one thing that still separated them. He shifted his hips, and she pulled it away, releasing him. Limbs tangling together, he pulled the duvet over them. Naked only to each other, protected from the rest of the world.

He rolled her onto her back, his mouth consuming her, tongue delving deep. She clutched at him pulling him tighter, finding shelter in his body. There was nothing between them now, only skin on skin and the simmering heat of long-delayed gratification. His hands roamed over her body, kneading over her flesh, coming back to her breasts. His head disappeared beneath the covers, and as he descended the sheets slipped from her body. She let him go where he pleased, urging him on with soft moans of encouragement as his mouth explored her valleys and curves. She floated in the warmth that he created, opening under him, the coolness of the room forgotten. His lips returned to hers, the taste of her on his tongue. They moved against each other, hips grinding, need building within them. He was hard against her, and she took him in her hand, fingers stroking his length as she dipped her tongue in his ear, inciting him to go further.

He spread her legs, positioning himself between them, sliding along her heat, teasing her with the tip of his erection. Her skin melted under the friction of his body, nerves exposed, electric, crying out for more. He held himself above her, palm caressing her cheek, his fingers winding into her hair. She whispered his name, silently asking him to stay with her, stay forever and hold up the sky. Dark eyes read her thoughts, as he always did, and a low groan came from within him. Her name fell from his lips. He entered her and her heart stopped. Their bodies stilled, breaths suspended, the moment overtaking them. Darkness hovered on the periphery, threatening to consume her but she willed it away. Searching for breath, she ran her hands over his hips, fingers in his flesh, begging him to continue. He moved with slow thrusts, bending down to her mouth, his breath infusing her, the beat of his heart calling to her. Senses tingling, a moan escaped from her lips as he pushed deeper inside. Fire licked through her veins and air coursed through her lungs. Life swelled within her. With soft, ragged pants she pushed against him, matching his intensity, wanting him to feel alive as she. Her mouth tasted his shoulder, and his hand covered her side, binding them together. The walls faded away, and the room opened up, the sky lifting wide above her. A wave surged through her, pulling at her and her fingers dug into his arms, her nails biting his flesh, and she clung to him. The tempo of his thrusts accelerated and she let go of edge, her body carried along with the wave, buoyed with euphoria, cresting, muscles breaking apart and then sinking. Rising, she gasped for air. He came hard against her, and she moved with the aftershocks of his release, his final thrust spilling into her.

They lay panting, as she absorbed his weight, her legs still wrapped around him. She smiled with the knowledge that there was at least one point where they arrived almost simultaneously. Her smile faltered when she realised that nothing between them had been resolved. She ran her fingers through the damp hair at the back of his neck. Could she share him with the Service? Kissing his shoulder, she brushed the thoughts away. He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. She wound her legs around him, listening to his heartbeat.

"You should stay in hotel rooms more often."

"Maybe we should go away for a while," he suggested.

"Mmm," she agreed. They could go on a holiday, get out from under everything and find out who they were.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked.

"New York."

"No," he scoffed. "Too many Americans."

She gave an indulgent smile. "Do you want to go to Paris then? Or would there be too many French people?"

He squeezed her against him, good-naturedly accepting her ribbing.

"I was thinking more of a compromise."

A compromise. How very adult. Maybe they had a chance.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Home." He kissed her temple. "I want to go home with you."

She raised her head not quite believing her ears. He smiled at her. Her mouth found his in a kiss of gratitude, arms winding around him. She was under no illusion that everything had been solved between them; they would continue to squabble and fall back into years of ingrained behaviour - they were both set in their ways, but they could start a new life on the same page, in the same place. Their home.


End file.
